Fighting Back
Let me preface this by admitting that my French is that of a 5th grader. I was very young when I left Morocco, and the little French that I knew got very rusty over the decades that I have taken the US as my new dwelling. Many years ago on a visit back home, my father and I went to the Macro, a wholesale megastore in the outskirts of Casablanca.
Just for a little context, I was donning a traditional Moroccan Jellaba and so was my dad. He was also rocking a beautiful faded yellow turban. I was dressed for comfort. Turbans and Jellabas are my dad’s regular garb. We took care of the errand fairly quickly and got back in the car. As I was backing out of the parking spot, I heard a loud incessant honking coming from a seemingly expensive car parked directly behind us. Upon checking, the car was occupied by a young female and her mother.
Both of them completely decked out in glamorous outfits that may not be a good fit for a supermarket trip. The makeup they had on was somewhat of an overkill. Anyways, the Mom got out of the car, walked towards our car and just laid into me. She was frothing at the mouth, and screaming at the top of her lungs. all in FRENCH. I couldn’t understand everything she was saying but I knew enough to comprehend that whatever it is she was saying was not flattering at all. She was hurling insults at a rate that my brain could’t process. She went on a tirade but I still hoped for a chance to explain. My instinctive reaction was to ease whatever fears she was dealing with. I truly wanted to take the high road and not reciprocate the same treatment I was receiving. I wanted to explain that I always make use of my rear view mirror. I wanted to bring up the obvious copious room between our cars. It became abundantly clear that she was not interested in having a civil exchange; the lady was hell bent on humiliating me in front of elderly father. It became apparent that she possessed a very sharp tongue and I happened to be the one she wanted to lash with it that morning.
This is where I lost my cool and decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. In a highly profane, R rated English, I let it all rip. I took no fuc**** prisoners. I showed her that my arsenal of unsavory vocabulary was highly sophisticated. I have always been of the theory that, when it comes to indecency, English sounds more rough and jagged than French. This theory was about to be proven as empirically true. The look on her face was priceless. She quickly came to the realization that she was messing with a guy who can go into ghetto gear in seconds. Her attitude shifted immediately, and I could almost see her shrink right before my eyes. She tucked her tail between her legs and retreated like a beaten coward. It was then that her uppity model wanna-be daughter stepped out of the car, and in the heaviest of accents she went: “We are very sorry mister”. Her apology didn’t sound very genuine. It was an apology of the wounded or that of one trying to cut their losses. It sounded more like a grudging concession . I felt vindicated but my feeling of indignation lingered a bit longer. Not knowing how to react, I mumbled “now scram” in Darija. This is a profane verb, actor Boubker Rafiq is famous for uttering when mad 😂. I have since mellowed out. When I ran into a similar incidents, I try to navigate them with tact and decorum.
